Frontline (22 page)

“I have a delivery, ma’am,” is the reply I receive.

I unlock the door, but leave the chain on as I peek outside.

A scrawny man in khakis and a FedEx emblazoned shirt and cap stands in the hallway.

“Uh, just leave it on the welcome mat, please,” I say through the crack.

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but this parcel is priority. It needs a signature.”

I look down at my frumpy bathrobe and shrug.

Who am I trying to impress anyway?

I unlatch the chain and open the door wider. The courier only gives a slight glance before asking me to sign the screen of his scanner and giving me the package.

The box hasn’t been tossed around or stacked on as some parcels I’ve ordered in the past obviously had. The corners look sharp, the tape shiny. The shipping date reads the same as today’s date. I slit the edges with a kitchen knife and open it. Underneath is another box, but this one has Chanel stamped on it.

After untying the bow, lifting the lid, and removing the tissue paper, I find a dark red dress made of chiffon and satin. The skirt portion is layered with an asymmetrical cut, the longest portion ankle length, and the uppermost portion high enough to show off some serious left leg action.

The neckline is respectful—the back not so much. It dips so low into a V it would probably stop just above my ass. The bodice looks slim fitting and is covered with glistening crystals. To top it all off, the dress comes with a pair of fuck-me shoes, the heels higher than anything I’ve worn before.

A handwritten card accompanies the items.

Sara,

I saw the dress and shoes on my stopover in Paris and thought they would look stunning on you. I would be honored if you wore them on Saturday night.

Yours,

Trenton

The cynical part of me thinks Trenton bought the dress and shoes so I don’t make a fool out of him at the charity benefit by wearing a non-designer outfit. The part of me that reads the
Yours, Trenton
portion of his note a gazillion times with a stupid smile on my face tells me not to be so suspicious and accept his gifts. After all, they’re gorgeous. And when I try them on they fit perfectly.

I thank Trenton
via text message but receive no reply. I don’t expect one since he’s away on business . . . in Moscow . . . possibly with Kedrov.

Talk about a buzz kill.

* * *

Saturday arrives with a storm of butterflies fluttering in my stomach. Though I’ve been excited for the benefit, it’s suddenly outweighed by nervousness. I felt like an outsider when I first arrived in New York, but that feeling slowly faded as I met Kelly and Denim and got to know my colleagues at the hospital. This Trenton side of New York life, however, belongs on my television screen or in a magazine. I don’t see how I’ll ever fit in.

Denim doesn’t feel the same way. She stands behind me, two suitcases worth of MAC makeup samples she brought from work placed on the floor beside my chair, gushing about my evening ahead.

White lights blaze from the edges of the portable makeup mirror set up on my desk. I have to blink away tears before she applies my mascara. After completing my makeup, she styles my hair in a chic up ’do and paints my nails.

“You look amazing,” she says when she’s finished. “Like a princess on her way to the royal ball.”

I have to admit that I feel like a princess, too. I was super worried about handing myself over to Denim, but she toned down her usual retro flair and gave me an elegant evening look that’s more glamorous than anything I’ve ever attempted myself.

Denim sweeps a stray strand of my hair back in line with the rest, and then she gives me a light hug to keep everything in place and smudge-free. “Have an awesome time. I want to hear all about it tomorrow! And please talk to Trenton about Christopher. He still hasn’t called me.”

I giggle. “Will do.”

Denim drags one makeup suitcase out the front door and screeches as I bend down to pick up the second. “Your nails aren’t dry yet!”

I step back from the suitcase and raise my hands in surrender.

The buzz of the entrance intercom goes off seconds after Denim gives me a final wave and closes the apartment door. I hope she stays true to her promise and doesn’t tell Kelly about tonight or else I’m never going to hear the end of it.

“Hey, I’m coming down,” I say into the microphone.

“I’m coming up to get you.” Trenton’s voice comes through the speaker. “Buzz me in.”

Moments later, footsteps echo down the hallway, followed by a loud knock at the door. Vetoing asking who it is because I hope he’ll give me a break tonight, I take a deep breath, turn the handle, and
—

Holy shit!

A model fit for the front page of a men’s fashion magazine stands at my door, dressed in a tuxedo. Not the emaciated, delicate, pretty-boy type, but the strong, lean, muscular type who could wield an ax as effortlessly as he could go yachting in St. Tropez.

Trenton’s tamed hair, white dress shirt, tailored jacket and pants, and shiny black dress shoes lend him the sophistication of a gentleman straight out of the 1920s. He even makes a bowtie look sexy.

Both of my hands reach for him. Trenton takes them in his and I guide him over the threshold to my waiting lips. Denim would shriek again if she were still here, but our kiss is gentle and my makeup survives.

“You look gorgeous,” he says, brushing his lips to my ear. “That dress is perfect on you . . . and those heels . . .” The words are devoured by a low groan.

“Thank you,” I say with enough natural color in my face it seems Denim didn’t need to apply blush on my cheeks tonight. “You look very handsome yourself.”

I reach for my purse and keys on the table behind me, and when I turn back around, Trenton has a fuck-hot grin stretched across his face. His eyes meet mine, and then guide them down to the small, navy felt box in his hands.

My hand hits my chest as my breath evaporates and my purse and keys fall to the floor. My heart, already beating hastily from our kiss, starts galloping. Then, as his fingers press against the sides of the lid to pull it back, it stops.

He must be kidding! It’s only been a week!

“I have something for you.”

He’s getting closer to me, running out of room to kneel.

“Oh, do you?” My voice trembles.

This is nuts!

And a little amazing.

Sara, you would be absolutely crazy to say yes!

Or would I?

The box creaks as Trenton opens the lid to reveal two pearl earrings each topped by a glistening diamond stud.

My heart starts beating again.

“They’re gorgeous,” I say, choking back the unexpected lump of disappointment lodged in my throat while savoring the spray from a refreshing wave of relief.

Trenton looks at me, all blue-eyed and
Boardwalk Empire
sexy. “Will you wear them tonight?”

“Yes, absolutely.”

I walk over to the vanity to remove the antique dangly earrings Denim picked out and replace them with Trenton’s. He stands behind me, his hands on my shoulders, and looks at me in the mirror. His eyes shine when I finish.

“And I thought you couldn’t look more beautiful, Sara.”

In our reflection, I don’t see the young woman who spends most of her time wearing baggy scrubs and shops at discount clothing stores. I see a sophisticated, brunette, brown-eyed beauty who looks like she belongs on Trenton’s arm.

“Thank you,” I say to Trenton in the mirror. “For everything. I was rude in the diner when I refused your offer to buy me a dress and accessories for tonight. I now recognize your honorable intentions and I really appreciate it.”

“I want you to get used to me spoiling you.” Trenton places his lips to my neck and his hands on my hips. I close my eyes, my head lobbing to the side as he breathes in deeply against my skin. “You look ravishing with your hair up, Sara.”

His fingers make a slow trip down my outer thighs and back up again, setting the skin beneath my dress ablaze. I meet his eyes in the mirror. They’re scorching, possessive. Feral.

It’s time to quit while I’m ahead.

I turn around and take his hand, batting my eyelashes. “Shouldn’t we be leaving now? We wouldn’t want to be late.”

Trenton lifts my hand to his lips for a kiss that would be interpreted as tender if not for the intensity of his gaze. “We’ll revisit this later, Miss Peters.”

I thread my hand into the back of his hair so I don’t disturb the debonair style on top and bring his lips to mine for a sensual kiss. Makeup be damned. I can touch it up in the car.

Just as Trenton slips his tongue into my mouth, I pull back and peer at him with what I hope is a sultry expression on my face.

“I look forward to it, Mr. Merrick.”

From the hungry glint in his eyes, I think I pulled it off.

Trenton picks up my purse and keys from the floor. We step out into the hallway and I lock up behind us.

“How’s the new lock working out?”

“Cockroaches all present and accounted for,” I say.

Trenton frowns and hands over my purse. Tonight, I hope he doesn’t bring up that I haven’t called Rick to install the alarm system since receiving his number from Sean on my voicemail this morning. It will only lead to an argument.

We step into the elevator and descend to the main floor. Outside, there is only one luxury automobile parked on the street that I can see.

“No Tin Men
again
, Mr. Merrick? I thought our experience in Central Park was a rarity.”

His eyebrows furrow. “Tin Men?”

I giggle. “That’s what I call Christopher and Sean and all of the other men that work for you. When I first met them, they seemed stiff and heartless. The nickname just kind of stuck.”

Trenton squints at me against the sunlight, a charming grin spread across his face. “When we reach the benefit, our moments alone will be few. I thought it would be nice to spend time together, just the two of us, until then.”

I beam at him. “That sounds lovely.”

I walk carefully to his car since I still haven’t gotten used to my high heels. Our ride tonight looks like something out of some futuristic sci-fi movie. It’s black and polished, and I don’t recognize the symbol on the hood.

“What kind of car is this?” I ask as the lights flash and the interior illuminates.

“A
Bugatti Veyron 16.4 Super Sport,” Trenton says, as if it’s nothing, but even with my limited automobile knowledge, I can tell this one is far beyond a Rolls Royce or Bentley in terms of luxury, power, and price.

Trenton opens my door and gets me settled before venturing over to the driver’s side and taking his seat behind the wheel. He starts the car using a scan of his thumbprint.

“Seatbelt, Miss Peters,” he says, though he’s easier on the gas pedal today as we make our way through the city streets.

Every passerby, whether driving, walking, or cycling cranes their neck to get a better look at the Bugatti, squinting to try to see through the tinted windows. They probably expect it to be some famous rapper. I’m tempted to put the window down and disappoint them all with plain old me, but Denim would kill me if I let the wind blow even one strand of my hair out of place.

The traffic thins once we leave Manhattan. I assume Trenton will continue on the freeway, but he merges into the exit lane.

“We’re making good time.” He drapes his wrist over the steering wheel, revealing a flashy watch. “I thought we’d take the scenic route today.”

The country road we drive along is deserted. Unlike the drive to Trenton’s Connecticut estate with Randall, I don’t feel panicked by our detour from society.

“A spontaneous change in schedule!” I smile. “Do Sean and Christopher know?”

Trenton smirks. “They’re reachable.”

Within a few miles, rolling fields and forest, blanketed by a sunset of bright pastels, surround us. Trenton relaxes behind the wheel. His right hand rests in my lap, brushing the smooth skin of my freshly shaven legs, while his left hand steers. Soothing warmth spreads through my thighs. I lay my head back against the headrest and listen to the purr of the Bugatti’s engine, reveling in his soft touch.

“Tonight’s benefit is held to raise funds for CARE,” he says. “To aid those affected by the drought in the Sahal region of West Africa.”

“How long have you been involved with it?” I place my purse at my feet.

“Ever since I got back from Haiti.” He says
Haiti
sullenly, with a hint of longing, as if he wishes he could be there at this moment instead of driving a luxury car to a lavish party to spend the night with other billionaires.

Trenton’s lips twitch into a frown, his eyes trained on the road ahead. “I’m not really as involved as I should be in charitable organizations. I give money, which is what everyone else does that goes to these functions, but to me, that’s the bare minimum. I’m in a position to do so much more, and very soon, I will.”

Knowing what Trenton accomplished with Merrick Industries in such a short time makes me believe if he’s willing to dedicate even more of his time and resources to something charitable, not only will it get done, but he will also make a real difference for thousands of people.

“Do you have a plan to save the world?”

Trenton smiles, but takes my question seriously.

“There are so many things to do, Sara
—so many people in trouble and so many problems to figure out. I’m going to start my own charitable foundation, not for an excuse to have parties and throw money at the problems, but to get the best people together and find solutions to them once and for all. That’s why I support CARE. They actually make a difference with the funds they receive.”

In that moment, the image of Trenton standing in the gazebo at his Connecticut home, with the rippling water from his swimming pool reflecting in his somber eyes, returns to me.

“Sounds like someone wants to return to the frontline.”

“I do. And international disaster preparedness and response is something you should look into as well, Sara.”

“Me?” I laugh. “I’m too busy patching up the residents of Manhattan.”

Trenton’s grip on the steering wheel tightens. “Your talents are wasted at that hospital. You’re worth so much more than that.”

“First of all, you shouldn’t look down on Manhattan General. What I do there is important—all types of nursing are important. Secondly, I’ve only been employed for six months. Working abroad interests me, but that hardly qualifies me for Nurses Without Borders.”

“I disagree,” Trenton says. “So much of what I saw in Haiti involved split-second decisions, people thinking on their feet. Every moment we didn’t act cost another life. I saw teenagers who couldn’t even read or write help save lives. Anyone can be trained to do something well. It’s a different quality altogether to lead those people. You have that ability. I see it in you.”

In all my years of schooling, I remember constantly feeling overwhelmed by deadlines and the pressure and expectation to succeed. I helped my parents as much as I could to raise money for college, but they footed most of my tuition, and the rest I paid using a bank loan. I couldn’t bear the thought of flunking out and letting them down.

After all those years of studying and the months I’ve now spent on the job, the pressure and expectation have never eased, and the overwhelming feeling of being a rookie trying to prove myself has only intensified. Yet all it takes is one person telling me they believe in me, and in an instant, my shoulders straighten and my lips curve into a broad smile. Perhaps the future might hold something promising for Trenton and me.

“Thank you.” I slip my hand into his and give it a quick squeeze.

He smiles and squeezes back.

On my last drive with Trenton, I couldn’t appreciate how sexy he looked handling a sports car because he was angry with me and I felt guilty about Kelly’s snooping. Now I stare at him like a star-struck fan in the presence of her teen idol, taking in as much as I can: the confident way he handles the car, his polished looks that make even the sleek interior of the Bugatti look like the inside of my apartment.

When he slips his hand to my lap, I spread my legs a bit, thankful I chose a sexy, black lace thong again. It gives me the extra confidence I need to make such a bold move.

Trenton’s eyes smolder in the glow of the dashboard as he responds to me. His hand slips higher . . . higher . . . and I’m also thankful for the asymmetrical cut of my dress because it grants him quick and easy access to where I want him most.

I gasp when his hand pushes my panties aside. One finger moves below and prods gently, coaxing me to open for him. He slides inside me without resistance.

“Damn it, Sara. You’re so wet.”

My head flies back and my heels dig into the floor as he slips a second finger inside me. I close my eyes and spread my legs wider, consumed by his touch
—his thumb swirling, his fingers thrusting in time with the rhythm of my hips.

The quiet purr of the engine escalates to a ferocious roar as the car accelerates, synchronized with the speed his hand tends to me.

“I want nothing more than to rip that dress off of you.” His voice sounds rough with need. “It took all of my strength to leave your apartment without taking you to bed first.”

“Talk to me, Trenton. Tell me what you want to do to me,” I say, in a pleading tone that’s so far removed from the woman I usually am, making a request I’ve never uttered in my life.

“I want to take my time touching you so your body recognizes my hands . . . craves them. I want to put my mouth on your breasts . . . I want to taste between your legs . . . savor what your body creates because of me. Then when you’re ready for me, begging for me, I want to shove my cock inside you.” He quickens the pace of his fingers . . . in and out . . . in and out. “
Do you want my cock, Sara?”

“Oh, yes!” I wriggle against his hand.

“Only my cock? No one else’s?”

“I . . . I . . .”

Trenton retracts his hand. I whimper in protest.

“Answer me.”

“Yes,” I say, panting for breath. “Only yours.”

I shudder and cry out as he continues.

“You are
mine
, Sara.” Determination saturates Trenton’s words, but his touch remains gentle. “No other man is allowed to touch you, not even look at you inappropriately, or so help me. Do you understand?”

He slips a third finger inside me and I melt into an incoherent puddle of designer dress, MAC makeup, and pearl and diamond earrings. With a gasp, I arch my back, pushing myself against him.

Another pause of his hand makes me rush to reply. “Yes, I understand.”

Trenton massages me with the heel of his hand while his fingers thrust in and out, pushing on that perfect spot inside me over and over. I’m so wet for him . . . soaring higher and higher . . .

“I’m taking you back to my place tonight and I’m going to show you what it’s like to be made love to by a man, not screwed by some high school boy.” His voice comes from a million miles away. “And you’re going to wear those heels, Sara.”